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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27980898">Lifa &amp; Daudr</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassysatsuma/pseuds/sassysatsuma'>sassysatsuma</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Assassin's Creed - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassin's Creed: Valhalla Spoilers, F/M, Female Eivor (Assassin's Creed), Post sciropscire, mostly Eivor musing on her choices, where Eivor and Ivarr were lovers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:55:18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,129</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27980898</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassysatsuma/pseuds/sassysatsuma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ivarr was a whirlwind, a man who ran hot with battle fire and fury. He was a warrior who lived for the taste of blood, glory and mead. He was clever, calculating and sly. The words that left his lips always felt honest in their savagery and his way of life felt so much simpler than her own. Eivor envied that, had felt drawn to it. So often she felt as though she filled a similar niche at her brother Sigurd’s side as he did at Ubba’s. Hot headed and eager for battle glory, there had always been a small feeling of kinship with Ivarr, from the first moment they met. </p>
<p>They were warriors both and that was to the death. </p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eivor (Assassin's Creed) &amp; Ívar beinlausi Ragnarsson | Ivar the Boneless, Eivor (Assassin's Creed)/Ívar beinlausi Ragnarsson | Ivar the Boneless</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lifa &amp; Daudr</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Heavily inspired by Lifa &amp; Daudr (Life &amp; Death) by Danheim </p>
<p>In truth, I'm not entirely sure what this is. I grew kind of attached to Ivarr and wanted to try and make sense of his relationship with Eivor in a world where they'd fallen into bed together and then certain events transpired. Part of me really wants to back track from here and explore them more pre-Sciropscire and flesh out this relationship in a different fic. </p>
<p>I hope you enjoy it :) If anyone shares my weird chaos ship, then welcome! It goes without saying, but big spoilers ahead for the end of the Sciropscire arc.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>“Raw bringer of battle-song, the boneless one sails into a singing-glory on a flaming water-steed. </span>
    </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>
      <span>Wind across the water, the battle maidens beat their wings to carry a king to Odin’s hall of corpses.”</span>
    </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><hr/>
<p>
  <span>Eivor watched as the flames aboard the boat grew, climbing higher as it slipped further away across tar black waters. The fire grew hotter, brighter, until the shape of the hull was lost to the flames, a bright ball that floated on the horizon. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ubba didn’t stay to watch. Instead he let out a heavy, troubled sigh and planted a large hand on Eivor’s shoulder. It was lost in an instant, followed by the man himself as he shrunk away and back to camp. The gaggle of soldiers who had joined them followed suit not long after. </span>
</p>
<p><span>But Eivor couldn’t slink away. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed to the burning pyre, sitting silently on the shoreline, knees drawn up against her chest. Above her </span><em><span>Máni </span></em><span>pulled his chariot high across the night sky, silver moonlight shining out across the otherwise dark waters as they ebbed and flowed by the shore.</span> <span>Even without the bright, dancing lights of her homeland, the clear, cloudless sky remained a beautiful one.</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Eivor sighed, her eyes continuing their vigil as the pyre began to fade from view. Her right hand found the hammer she wore around her neck, its familiar solid weight a comfort as she held it in her palm. A cool breeze blew across her bare face and neck and sent a chilling shiver through her bones. It was a night to spend filled with mead and tucked under furs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And yet, she remained, locked in place by a sense of obligation she barely even understood. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For all that he had done, Ivarr Ragnarsson had deserved to die. She had been honour bound to kill him herself or die in the attempt. He had finally gone too far, taken </span>
  <em>
    <span>too much</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Turning Rhodri into a blood eagle was nothing and although she thought the act a waste of time and effort, Eivor had struggled to pity the man. She’d never truly believed Rhodri would pursue peace, not with Ivarr still breathing and his brother in the cold earth. </span>
  <em>
    <span>But Ceolbert had deserved better.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He had been an ally but more importantly a </span>
  <b>
    <em>friend</em>
  </b>
  <span>. If his Christian heaven existed, she prayed that he was there now, watching over his father in peace. The boy had deserved to grow old and fat and maybe even become a king, or at least die in battle like the warrior he had begun to become. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She still hated every inch of Ivarr’s conniving heart for choosing his own revenge over a boy’s life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And yet, she was conflicted. Her heart still burned with the pain of Ivarr’s betrayal, her armour was still stained with his blood. She would never forgive him for what he had done. But he had been her friend too, an ally, a lord whose name had been forged into legend whilst she was still young, green and naive. He was a son of Ragnar, a leader of the great horde, a king killer. Her lover once. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had been so many different things, so many of them great and yet she’d never once known his mind fully. She doubted that anyone had, not even his brothers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t regret killing him. Ceolbert deserved justice and it was fitting that he got it by her axe. It was a matter of honour for them both, to have walked away and let Ivarr live knowing what she knew would have been a stain on her reputation that she was unable to bear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ivarr had known it too. He’d baited her with it in his own frantic struggle for glory. Not content with being one of the most famous Danes in their world, he had been determined to become the greatest. No matter the cost. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>That cost had been too high.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eivor shook her head, watching as the last of the flames burned out upon the horizon, the charred embers of his pyre sinking beneath the waves. The hand holding her hammer released it, instead tracing a long angry cut that ran from her collarbone to the base of her jaw with a single finger. The cut was still reddened and angry, puckered flesh that time hadn’t knitted back together yet. It wasn’t deep, but it would likely scar. A fresh memory to add to her collection and her token from their fight on the mountain. When Ivarr’s axe had struck a glancing blow against her neck she had felt the warmth of the blood before she felt the pain of it. She’d wondered if the Gods were with him instead of her, her hands tightening around her axes in case she should fall. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eivor didn’t search for her death like Ivarr, but she didn’t deny the power of fate either. The Gods had taught her how to live. Their code had been as ever present as the cords of fate that coiled and twisted her life about them. She was born of blood, iron and sacrifice like every other Norse or Dane trying to etch out a living in Midgard. What else was there if she couldn’t someday sit shoulder to shoulder with Odin or Freyja in their glittering halls and feel no shame?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Despite his betrayal, she believed that the valkyries had already carried Ivarr home, to the Valhalla he had dreamed of for so long. For a man of his reputation, there was nowhere else to be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ivarr had been a whirlwind, a man who ran hot with battle fire and fury. He was a warrior who lived for the taste of blood, glory and mead. He was clever, calculating and sly. The words that left his lips had always felt honest and his way of life had felt so much simpler than her own. She’d envied that, been drawn to it. So often she felt as though she filled a similar niche at her brother Sigurd’s side as he did at Ubba’s. Hot headed and eager for battle glory, there had always been a small feeling of kinship with Ivarr, from the first moment they met. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She did not share his cruelty. For her, torture wasn’t something to delight in. But in a fight she shared his savagery. She’d shared his dreams of gold bright Valhalla, of a roof made of shields and rafters of spears. They were warriors both and that was to the death. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a time she’d shared his bed. She’d never pursued him, never thought that a son of Ragnar might take an interest in her. He wasn’t a man she had pined for from the start like some star eyed maiden. The first time they’d slept together was the night before Ceolwulf’s coronation. They were celebrating, drinking mead and swapping war stories. In amongst the boasting and teasing, she saw flashes of a different man, a man not so unlike herself. When he spoke about his brothers, her heart felt it, recognised it. When he talked of not knowing Ubba’s mind the way he always had, she knew that same pain. It was as though he was a mirror, showing her the shades of herself that she fought to ignore. Pretend as she might, she was no longer in Sigurd’s confidence. A part of his life was hidden from her, unknown to her despite her unshakeable loyalty. The brother she loved as though he was blood was still there, but he was distant, holding himself at arm’s length whilst she constantly reached to try and close the distance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a comfort there in knowing that Ivarr felt that same distance too. A hope that sprung from his determination not to accept it that felt so similar to her own. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That first night had been clumsy, full of fumbling drunken hands. Her blunt nails had scraped a path along the runes that covered his stomach, whilst his teeth raked at her inner thighs. She had felt reckless and alive. Ivarr had brought with him an intoxicating sensation of feeling rather than thinking, </span>
  <em>
    <span>an escape</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That first night she hadn’t thought that she might slip into his bed again and yet he quickly became a habit she had no desire to break. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Life beside him, whether it was in the shield wall or in his bed had felt simple. Addictively so. In reality, it had turned into anything but. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eivor reached to her side, retrieving the hand axe strapped to her thigh. She lifted it into her lap, turning it over in her hands idly. It was neither grand nor ornately designed. A tool for a purpose. It had been her first and only gift from Ivarr, an object he had scrabbled for on the battlefield when he saw Ubba present her with a silver arm ring. She could still remember laughing and pretending not to have seen when he handed it to her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now so small a thing held so much more meaning. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I imagine you’re too busy drowning yourself in mead to hear me…” She spoke out, looking back out over the water. Her thumbs traced the smooth metal side of the axe head. “Ivarr Ragnarsson, feasting with the High One and your famous father. I doubt you have the time to care what I have to say.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her thumb caught the edge of the blade, the metal still sharp enough to cut. She hissed, watching the trickle of red as it gathered and then dripped back onto the axe head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“... I wanted to deny you Valhalla. It took all that I had not to kick your axe away. Why should you have your dream when you robbed Ceolbert of his? Then again, would Odin have shared my judgement? Or would the valkyries still have ridden out to claim you regardless? We’ve killed so many Christians, you and I. Why should one more change our fates?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She paused, shaking her head grimly. Ceolbert had never been just another Christian. Eivor had never chosen to see the world in such absolute black and white, but even if she had, Ceolbert had been a person, a boy she’d watched be forged into a man. A friend she had vowed to protect, a man she’d thought Ivarr to think of like a son. She hadn’t understood his faith, nor his ways but she’d recognised the good in him, the care he had for Mercia and its people. It didn’t matter that he was Saxon, that he believed in one God instead of many. He had cared for his father’s people like she cared for her own. Ultimately, that was all that had mattered to her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Would Ceolbert have wanted her to send Ivarr to Niflheim? She didn’t know. She never would. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“He was better than us both. He would have made a good leader, a good ally and a better friend. If you could have just swallowed your pride then all three of us might still live… But that was never enough for you. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Midgard</span>
  </em>
  <span> alone was never enough for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was speaking to a man who couldn’t hear her. Her remaining words died in her throat, falling away back into silence before she could give them voice. Instead, she finally let her shoulders sag under the invisible weight that pressed down upon them. A long drawn out breath left her body and she closed her eyes, concentrating on little more than the sounds of the nearby water that lapped at the shoreline just beyond her feet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Pulling herself up to stand, Eivor gave one more glance to the axe in her hands. Her grip around the haft was tight, her knuckles white. She looked up and with one fluid motion she slung the axe out across the open water to follow Ivarr, watching as it plunged beneath the tar black waves like a stone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What was done was done. Her fate was already written and she was merely following its thread. Ivarr had been fated to die by her axe just as Ceolbert had been fated to die by his dagger. It was not her place to reason why. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She would meet Ivarr again, across a battlefield in Odin’s corpse hall. Until then, cruelly, she was alone in having to live with the mark of what he had done. Whilst he drank and feasted with the Gods, she would be forced to carry its weight. She would endure, because she had no choice. But with every friend that died, so did a piece of herself alongside them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For better or for worse, she’d never feel truly whole again. She doubted that no matter what came next, Scriropscire would ever be worth it.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
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